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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114347">Someday You'll Return</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/masongirl/pseuds/masongirl'>masongirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Band of Brothers (TV 2001)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Pre-Slash, Recovery, References to Addiction, Trauma, World War II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:07:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,713</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28114347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/masongirl/pseuds/masongirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In December 1945, Buck visits Malarkey in Oregon. Together, they try to figure out what being alive means after the war.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Buck Compton/Donald Malarkey, Lynn "Buck" Compton &amp; Donald Malarkey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Heavy Artillery Holiday Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Someday You'll Return</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/gifts">Muccamukk</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Merry Christmas, Muccamukk! :) I hope you'll enjoy your gift. I did not take the prompt in a romantic direction, but the characters love each other nevertheless, and it's not hard to imagine them taking things a step further. ❤️</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Sleet drums on the fabric of Buck's umbrella and rolls down into the puddles littering the street. He adjusts his hat before the biting wind could capture it and leave his head bare. After all those dreadful months he spent wearing a helmet for some semblance of safety, he doubts he'll feel comfortable without headwear for a while more. Especially in a place as chilly as this. He shouldn't have come, he thinks as his shoes start to give in to the pervasive dampness that's pouring on Astoria. The warm kisses of California's sunshine seem to have seeped out of his skin at the state border. Forests, shrublands, rain and cold, welcome to winter in the Beaver State.</p><p>The door he's approaching opens, splitting the gloomy sidewalk with a ray of golden light, and out stumbles a dishevelled figure with his hat askew and scarf undone. His hair looks like it's burning as he tilts his head up to laugh at the rain. Behind him, the noise of a prosperous bar flares up for a moment before the door swings shut. Buck smiles and quickens his steps. His heart is pounding in his ears like it always does when he's about to jump into combat. It's strange, but he chalks it off as excitement.</p><p>Malarkey stumbles to a halt and gawks like an idiot when he spots him. "Buck?! Is that you?"</p><p>Buck raises an eyebrow. "I see you haven't got any brighter, Malark."</p><p>Malarkey grins and flaps his arms. His coat sleeves are too short and they ride up to reveal the edges of a fraying knitted sweater. "You're two days early."</p><p>This is where Buck would usually insert another wry remark, something that would make Malarkey laugh, but he finds his tongue twisted into a knot. What he thought was excitement just a few minutes earlier morphs into self-consciousness. "I got some time off and I figured…"</p><p>Uncharacteristically, he doesn't finish the sentence. He can't name the exact reason for this visit, all he knows is that he had to leave and see someone who… knows him. Someone who can make him feel at ease. It's not something he would be proud to admit out loud, so he doesn't, and the silence between them stretches a second too long. It's a lucky thing that Malarkey seems too happy to notice the tension. He extends a hand, and Buck takes it, glad to feel the warmth of a friendly touch.</p><p>"Jesus, buddy, I missed you." Malarkey says and claps him on the back, turning back towards the bar he has just exited. "How the hell did you know I was going to be here?"</p><p>Buck didn't, but Mrs Malarkey, driven by her motherly concern, very much did. She persuaded him to go find her son instead of waiting for him to come home and asked him to keep Donnie out of trouble. She obviously wasn't aware of who she was asking if it was the gambling that worried her.</p><p>The problem with darts, cards and betting is that they're all games, and Buck has always been an excellent player no matter what he put his mind to. It's hard to relinquish a bad habit when it tastes like success. In its thrill, he can lose himself and forget about time, space and pain. A good-spirited competition feels like gliding in lukewarm water that smooths the worry-lines away from his face and gives him a purpose for those precious moments while it lasts.</p><p>No, Mrs Malarkey - Helen - was naive to assume Buck, of all people, could drag her Donnie home tonight. He's an addict of winning and the rush before it, the fight. People may not see it as a weakness because it's inconspicuous behind a layer of victory, but that doesn't mean he has control over it. In this regard, he and Nixon have more in common than the man would ever believe.</p><p>He remembers Dick's cool words just before D-day. They keep ringing in his head whenever that spark lights up in his chest, and he feels the shame just as acutely as an alcoholic would. But he always wins. Who in their right mind would ask him to stop? A golden boy is what they call him in his hometown. Nobody knows how deeply he fears that one day he'll channel his addiction into something he's not good at. He can't afford losing.</p><p>Today, it's easy to put it aside though. In the welcoming haze of the bar, his socks dry and the nervous twitch in his hands dissipates. Malarkey buys him a beer and introduces him to what seems like every young man around their age who happens to be there. Some of them have been to Europe, but none as paratroopers, and they all regard Buck with respect and wariness. They see him as an officer and hold themselves accordingly. He could easily distance himself from them, building on the sharpness in his eyes that always made him a leader on the field. He didn't come here for this kind of company after all. But they're not at war anymore, are they? He befriends them.</p><p>It's the natural course of things that they end up challenging him to a game of darts, which they lose. He and Malarkey pull off a beautiful hustle and leave a couple dollars richer, victorious. Buck shakes the boys' hands, smiles at their mock-threats. His natural affinity hasn't failed him.</p><p>"I can't believe they fell for it." Malarkey laughs on the way out.</p><p>He was a good accomplice, but no one can live up to George Luz. How could they? Buck sighs at the thought. He wishes he and George still talked. But it's difficult to erase the picture of him on his knees in Bastogne's snow, clutching at Buck's clothes, desperate. <em>Please, you can't leave us, sir. </em>Oh, how he failed his men. No, he can't write to George.</p><p>"Come on, why are you brooding? We won!" Malarkey swats at him and gets a light push back. He's drunk enough to stumble from the motion, and the girls just about to enter the bar giggle. Buck glances at them and finds a short brunette looking back. She blushes but holds his gaze until they step over the threshold.</p><p>"Pretty, huh?" Malarkey smirks drunkenly and almost falls on his face again.</p><p>"Careful." Buck drawls. Helen will have his hide if her son ends up in hospital tonight. How ironic would that be? Surviving the greatest of all wars without a scratch, only to crack his head open on the curb back home.</p><p>"Her name's June." Malarkey goes on. "Like the month. Strange name."</p><p>Buck shrugs. Leaving his car by the house was a good idea. The fresh air might sober Malarkey up. "It reminds you of summer."</p><p>"That's not what it reminds me of." The bitterness in Malarkey's voice is sudden and leaves a long beat of silence behind. Their footsteps fall into rhythm and echo each other on the empty streets. The rain has stopped, but the pavement still glistens in the street lamps’ glow. Malarkey sways as he walks and brushes against Buck's shoulder every now and then. "How long are you staying?"</p><p>"A week, if that's all right. I'll go home for Christmas."</p><p>"Too bad. Mom would've liked it if we had a guest on the 25th." Malarkey sighs. "I can introduce you to her tomorrow."</p><p>"Your mom?" Buck chuckles. "We've already met."</p><p>"No, I mean June."</p><p>Buck shakes his head. "I'm not interested."</p><p>It's not strictly true. He'd love to make that girl smile and see her eyes light up under her chestnut bangs, but he hasn't been able to flirt in a long time. Can't put his heart in it anymore. It often feels like he's selling damaged goods.</p><p>"Anyone waiting for you back home, Buck?" Malarkey nudges him as they cross another street. It's clear that he's not asking about Buck's family.</p><p>Buck sighs. "It has been difficult to connect." His fault. It's impossible to forget the words, <em>'dear Lynn, I am so sorry...' </em>He buried them under a tree in Bastogne, but they still torment him. His girl, the angel whose photograph he carried above his heart, couldn't wait it out.</p><p>"I know a thing or two about that.” Malarkey kicks a rock on the pavement. “My friends say it’s ‘cause I’ve changed."</p><p>That makes Buck ticked. Do people expect them to just put a lid on the war as if it has never happened? Years spent living in ditches and barracks in near constant fear doesn’t leave a man unchanged. There’s a rift between the boys they were and the men they’ve become. He doesn’t think they will ever go back to how it was before.</p><p>“The one good thing that came out of this shit for us is the G.I. Bill.” Malarkey continues. “Did I tell you I’m going back to college?”</p><p>“No.” Buck smiles. Finally, some good news. “I’m happy for you.”</p><p>Malarkey grins up at him dopily. “I'm already enrolled for the spring semester. And I got to keep all the money I saved up for it before the war. Neat, huh? I think I’ll buy a car.”</p><p>Buck laughs. “You’ve got it all sorted out, haven't you?”</p><p>“If I don’t blow it all away on booze.” Malarkey jokes, but they both know there’s a kernel of truth to it. Who would have thought it would be so hard to stomach normal life again?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Dinner with the Malarkeys is a noisy and altogether cheerful affair despite the resignation in Helen’s eyes when she smells the drink on her son. It’s immensely more enjoyable than the theatrics Buck’s family put on in those first few months after he came home. Unlike Buck's cousins, Don’s brothers aren’t interested in heroic anecdotes or bragging fodder, they want to hear the funniest, wildest stories they’re sure their brother withheld from them. Their father doesn’t offer much in terms of conversation, but his smile is warm and he laughs with his whole body just like Don. They don’t make a fuss about anything. Although Buck loves his family, he wishes it was more like this. Whole.</p><p>“That’s bull!” Bobby, Don’s little brother laughs after Buck recounts Don’s reckless attempt to get a Luger at Brecourt Manor. For Helen’s sake, he doesn’t mention that it was him, but he has a hunch that she pieced it together anyway.</p><p>“I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.” Buck replies, trying not to chortle when he sees the splotches of embarrassed red on Malarkey’s face. “I thought that private was done for, but the lucky bastard got away.”</p><p>“The krauts thought he was a medic.” Malarkey adds, sharing a playful look with Buck.</p><p>“Lucky man.” Bobby shakes his head.</p><p>“All that for a gun? His poor mother. She wouldn’t be proud of him risking his life like that.” Helen huffs. Looking about as innocent as a cat with cream on its whiskers, Malarkey takes a hasty sip of his drink.</p><p>“And the dead Germans didn’t even have a Luger.” Bobby adds. “Don got me one though.”</p><p>That gets an eyeroll from Don's older brother. “A friend gave it to him.”</p><p>Bobby goes on as if he didn't even hear it. “I wish I was there to get one for myself.”</p><p>“Never say that again.” Malarkey interjects, and a sudden spike of tension breaks the camaraderie.</p><p>“But -”</p><p>“You don’t understand.” Don spits out and stands up from the table. His hands are balled into fists. “Excuse me.”</p><p>They let him go. Based on their reactions, his family is used to outbursts like that, and Buck is too stunned to figure out how to deal with it. In the army, Malarkey wasn't known as the volatile type. He always kept his emotions to himself. <em>He must have let them pile up too high,</em> Buck thinks as the conversation veers off towards the World Series and his baseball career. <em>That happens to everyone. </em>Nevertheless, he's glad that no one brings up the war again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>On Sunday, they accompany Malarkey’s parents to church. The weather has cleared up and the pale winter sun is smiling brightly at the park that surrounds the white-walled building and the cemetery. It’s a crispy clear morning, one that bites Buck’s fair cheeks rosy and makes every breath feel like relief.</p><p>There's a flower in Malarkey's hands, a single white lily that he twirls between his fingers nervously. It must be for a relative's grave. Perhaps someone's who passed recently or when they were away. Don's face is blanched and devoid of emotion, but when he detaches from their group to sit on a bench under the trees, his shoulders sag. Once he's settled, his left knee starts bouncing up and down.</p><p>Buck recognises that gesture. He knows that it means his friend is doing his damnedest not to lose it, to keep something explosive inside. He hesitates. It seems like a private moment he shouldn’t intrude on, but he can't ignore the worry gnawing at his heart. He glances at the pews, then at Malarkey’s father, and their eyes meet.</p><p>“Let him be.” Mr Malarkey says gently, but his gaze holds the grief of a man who lost two brothers to one war and feels a son slipping away from the wounds of another. For a second, Buck allows himself to remember his dad and the terrible sadness that drove him into taking his own life, and makes up his mind. He goes to sit beside Don and waits.</p><p>“You don’t have to miss out on it for me.” Malarkey mumbles, avoiding eye contact.</p><p>“This isn’t my first time, I think I can skip it.”</p><p>Malarkey flinches so violently that Buck frowns and revises his words. He wants to punch himself a split second later - he knows what's wrong now. “I can go if you want.”</p><p>“No, it’s fine.”</p><p>They're content to let the silence linger. Behind them, the choir begins the first song, and its notes curl around them like a comforting caress. Malarkey touches one of the perfect petals on the flower and sniffs from the cold. The shadows falling on his face leave his gentle brown eyes in darkness while letting the sunshine set his hair on fire. Buck watches the wet, dead leaves on the ground and breathes in deeply. This is what he needed. Peace. Not happiness, just… peace. He’s tired of going forward, ceaselessly chasing the future while sweeping the past under the rug. He knew that Don’s company would help him find it in himself to let his own addiction to high performance go for a moment.</p><p>“Why did you change your plans?” Malarkey asks, raising the lily up to a ray of light to watch it filter through the petals. He’s no fool - denying that there was a specific reason behind Buck’s early arrival would be futile.</p><p>A spot deep inside Buck trembles. “I got an offer to play in the minor league.”</p><p>Despite his apparent lethargy, Malarkey looks up to give him a faint but genuine smile. “That’s amazing!”</p><p>“Yeah.” Buck clears his throat. The phantom-weight of a grenade sits in his palm. He could pretend it’s a baseball, and that fact bothers him deeply.</p><p>Malarkey elbows him. “Hey. You can always say no.”</p><p>“And fail my family?” The bitter laugh that bursts out of Buck is entirely unintentional. He can’t take another loss. The last time he didn’t win a fight, people died. “They think I’m a hero. I can’t let them down too.”</p><p>“What do you mean 'too'?”</p><p>Here it comes. The core of the festering wound that takes the sleep out of Buck's nights. “We both know that my trench foot wasn’t that bad.”</p><p>Malarkey shakes his head. "None of us thought any less of you for it, you know that."</p><p>"But I did. God knows, I did." He still does. It just doesn't sit right. How could it have happened to him? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you to Dike. I should have toughed it out.”</p><p>"Buck, we all think you're a hell of an officer. You don’t have to apologise for someone else’s shit."</p><p>He pauses to think about that for a moment. "Really?"</p><p>"Really. We were glad you got out of there. Honest."</p><p>They look at each other, then Buck nods, his lips pursed. "Thanks, Malark."</p><p>“Don’t mention it.” Malarkey turns back to his lily and closes his eyes, as if it pains him to see the flower. “Just look at me. I disappoint my mother every day, and she still loves me. You can say no.”</p><p>“I don’t think she’s disappointed.”</p><p>“She doesn’t understand why it’s so -” He bites the rest of the sentence off. “What could I even tell her?”</p><p>He stands up and walks over to a tree that must have been hit by lightning. There's a wide scar down its trunk, burnt around the edges. A few feet away, a makeshift memorial stands, covered in candles lit for the boys who never came home. Malarkey doesn't turn towards it though. He places the lily under the tree, then looks up at its bare branches and the looming pines behind it that whisper arcane, ghostly words to each other. The silence breathes with them for a minute, then two, five. The faint sounds of a hymn filter out through the church’s door. Malarkey doesn’t say anything until the singing ends. When he comes back to the bench, his eyes are lifeless and his fingers twitch for the cigarette he fishes out of his pocket.</p><p>He lights it and takes a deep drag. "There's nothing to tell."</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>On the last day of Buck’s visit, it snows. An almost unheard-of event at this time of the year, but not inexplicable, given the recent weather. A week of cloudless nights made the temperature drop, and now the usual rainfall has given way to thick white flakes. It's heavy enough that a thin veil covers the front yard and the porch steps. Although most of it melts almost immediately as it reaches the ground, the sight drips dread and nausea into Buck's stomach in a steady trickle. It caught him off-guard. He imagines the sound as it crunches under his boots and a shudder ripples through him. He takes a step forward anyway. This is a demon he can defeat, he tells himself. When his feet sink into it, he’ll think of it as a blanket instead of a shroud.</p><p>When he walks further outside, his mug of coffee still in hand, he finds Malarkey by the porch railing, rocking in place. Up on his toes, back to his heels, left, right, all over again, his arms crossed over his chest. As if the sight is enough to make him cold. He gives Buck an empty look and rubs at the stubble on his face.</p><p>“It might be better if we stayed in today.”</p><p>“It’s not that bad. We can still go.”</p><p>“We can’t fish in this weather.” Malarkey hedges, drumming his fingers on the railing. He looks unsettled, but Buck doesn't budge.</p><p>“Come on. You’ve talked my ears off about the Nehalem, the least you can do is show me around.”</p><p>At that, Malarkey’s resolves cave in. He runs a hand over his face and groans. “All right. I’ll drive us out after breakfast.” He goes back inside, muttering when he walks past Buck’s triumphant grin. “I swear, you could convince Winters to curse.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>During the war, Malarkey didn't tend to talk a whole lot about home. He was more of a listener, someone who enjoyed his friends' stories more than his own, perhaps because his own saddened him too much. Skip was the opposite - he found his solace in his happy memories and liked to revisit them often. This dynamic could have been part of the glue that made their friendship so deep, Buck muses as he and Malarkey park his car and start off on the trail leading to the nearby fishing spots on the Nehalem.</p><p>This river was the only thing from Oregon that Malarkey could talk about for hours on end. His family has a little cabin in the woods, and he used to spend his summers there, fishing and hunting. Most of the boys didn't get its importance, but Buck always thought that Don was trying to explain the same state of mind he himself experienced on the baseball field. That sort of liquid sensation that tells you everything is all right, you've got nothing to worry about. That weightless feeling.</p><p>"I can see why you like this place." Buck says when they spot the riverbank at the end of the trail. It's lined with snow-covered rocks and looks like something out of a Christmas tale.</p><p>Malarkey turns to walk a few steps backwards and smiles. The spell of discomfort that ran through him at the first sight of snow has disappeared.</p><p>"Beautiful, isn't it?" He gestures at the thick canopy above them that forms a living, breathing tunnel. "You'll have to come back in the summer. We could go hunting then."</p><p>Buck nods. He isn't the most experienced hunter, but he can see how happy Don is about the idea. How could he say no? Besides, spending a week roaming these breathtaking mountains when it's warm and the forests are abuzz with life doesn't sound half bad. He and Don could share the cabin and do whatever they want.</p><p>Today, however, the weather isn't their ally. It's even colder than it was in Astoria, and Buck has to tighten the scarf Don bought him as a Christmas present. The Nehalem is gloomy-grey and foreboding, and the pine trees lining it look harsh. Rather than a home for docile game and wild berries, this forest gives Buck the impression that mythical beasts lurk in its shadows. The water burbles as the current rolls rocks and twigs down from the Coast Range's heights.</p><p>Malarkey climbs up on a fallen tree's trunk and hooks his hands in the straps of his backpack. “I’ve dreamt about this in Bastogne.”</p><p>Buck crouches down and grabs a twig to do something with his hands. He doesn't have his gloves on, but strangely enough, touching the snow and feeling it melt on his skin don't upset him. He draws a shape into the white canvas. "You must have been blessed by an angel if it wasn't a nightmare."</p><p>"It wasn't." Malarkey replies and he sounds distant. “I was drifting in the river with a fishing pole in my hand, and it took me downstream all the way to the ocean. The forest looked just like this, with snow and everything, but I could see fires along the banks and the water was so goddamn warm, Buck, you wouldn't believe."</p><p>"Was that the day Penkala tripped and spilled coffee on you?"</p><p>"Shut up." The smile is clear in Malarkey's voice.</p><p>"I didn't have any nice dreams I can remember." Buck frowns at his drawing. It's supposed to be an angel but came out as a ghost.</p><p>"Well, I only had just the one too." Malarkey clears his throat. "And then, the night after you left, I thought… <em>All it would take is one shot.</em> You know, just one shot and I could have been back here one way or another."</p><p>He says it lightly, but the direction his thoughts take has Buck worried. Before his visit, he had no idea it was this bad. The letters didn't convey that Malarkey had troubles too. Buck doesn't know how to help when he can't even help himself. The best he can do is to provide distraction. Acting on impulse, he buries his hands in the snow and scoops some into a ball.</p><p>"Hey!" Malarkey exclaims when it catches him right on the shoulder. He jumps down from the fallen tree and lunges for a pile of snow. There's a grin tugging at his lips. "I was pouring my heart out, you bastard!"</p><p>Buck laughs and dodges the barrage of snowballs Malarkey aims his way. He digs into the snow again and returns the fire, and his ammunition doesn't feel like a grenade or a baseball this time, just a handful of frozen water.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They’re soaked from sweat and melted snow when they finally make it inside the cabin. It's only a quaint little room with two chairs, a cot, a table and a fireplace. There's a radio on the windowsill, fairly new, freshly chopped wood by the door and blankets on the bed. Heedless of the weather, Malarkey must have resumed his habit of coming up here to hide. Currently, his skin is taking up the colour of his hair, and Buck’s is probably no better off after all the running they've done. His thighs ache under his trousers from the sudden change in temperature, but it’s a pleasant sensation this time. Especially when they get the fire going and settle down in the battered chairs to tuck into Helen's sandwiches. With the aftertaste of his laughter still sweet in his throat, it’s easy to ignore the memories that waltzed so easily to the forefront of his mind back on the porch. He likes it here.</p><p>When the small, dusty room finally warms up, Malarkey tugs his damp coat off in the hopes that he can dry it. He's still smiling, but the expression melts off his face when he realizes that the cross around his neck has escaped the confines of his shirt and is now lying on top of his sweater. It’s not hidden anymore. He grabs it with unbearably gentle fingers and tucks it back under his clothes. Buck frowns at him but doesn’t push for an answer. He isn’t even sure what he has just witnessed. If his suspicion is right, it’s not something Malarkey would want to talk about.</p><p>He rummages through his bag and grabs the wrapped-up item he put in there yesterday. "I got you another present, but I was afraid your mother would kill me if you opened it in front of her."</p><p>Malarkey gives him a curious look, then grins when he sees it's a bottle of fine whiskey.</p><p>"Merry Christmas." Buck says and lights the half-used candle in the middle of the table. It's a sad substitute for a Christmas tree, but the company is more important anyway. They had far worse celebrations before.</p><p>"Merry Christmas indeed." Malarkey chuckles and takes a swig of the drink, then offers it to Buck.</p><p>They pass it back and forth for a while. The alcohol burns as it rolls down Buck's throat, and his limbs relax. His thoughts flow effortlessly between topics he would instantly retreat from, were he sober. He stares at the candle's flame until it blurs into a spirit-dance. It feels reminiscent of sitting around in the back of a truck on D-day, eating Don's rotten cooking from an ammo box. Being here is much better, but the same sense of winding down is there.</p><p>“Do you mind if I turn on the radio for a bit?” Malarkey breaks the silence.</p><p>“No, if you can find a signal." Buck mumbles back. He sinks lower in his chair and just lets his gaze follow Don while he's fiddling with the buttons.</p><p>After a few minutes of static, he finds a channel they can tune in to reasonably well, save for the occasional crackling they got used to in their army days anyway. Soft jazz fills the room and brightens the flickering candlelight. Buck throws his arm over the back of his chair and spreads his fingers to feel the warmth of the fireplace seep between them. There’s a bitter draft around the small window, but Malarkey doesn’t move away from it. He leaves his chair empty in favour of staring at the frosty meadow outside. His fingers wander up to his chest. They’re tracing the shape of the cross through his fraying sweater, Buck knows. Something tightens in his heart.</p><p>“It’s Muck’s, isn’t it?” He asks, keeping his voice low. It seems inappropriate to break the golden haze of this moment with his booming voice.</p><p>“Yeah.” Malarkey replies quietly. “I kept it.”</p><p>He presses his forehead to the window and closes his eyes. His exhales fog up the glass. “It’s selfish. I should have given it to Faye.”</p><p>Buck leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. There’s a crack in the floorboards, and he keeps his eyes on that when he says his response. “She doesn’t know how much it meant to Skip on the line.”</p><p>That tiny cross was a symbol of hope. Skip used to kiss it every time the explosions stopped after a German shelling. Before going to sleep, he would tangle his rosary around his fingers and murmur a prayer for all of them, everyone who had to shiver through that Christmas in their miserable foxholes. He clung to that cross for good luck until his death. Faye wouldn’t understand how devastating it was to hear the spirit behind that symbol left them alone in the forest.</p><p>Malarkey pinches the bridge of his nose with his right hand. “I haven’t written to her since I came home.” He takes a shaky breath. "She asked me to visit if I have the means, but I never answered."</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“It doesn’t seem fair to her. I can’t imagine it causing anything but pain.” The music changes, and the enchanting melody of the Mills Brothers’ Paper doll tears through the silence. Malarkey’s breath hitches.</p><p>“I still can’t believe it, Buck.” He cries. The hand on his chest drops down to the radio. “I imagined this so many times and he was always here with us.”</p><p>At last, Buck stands up. He forces his heavy legs to take him closer and squeezes Malarkey’s shoulder. “He’s in a much better place now. All we can do is remember what an incredible friend he was.”</p><p>Malarkey turns his face away. His shaking fist presses to his forehead. “I can’t.”</p><p>“Yes, you can.” Buck whispers and slides his arm fully around Malarkey’s back. When he leans closer to catch a glimpse of Malarkey’s eyes, Malarkey tilts his head and rests it against his. His sobs quiet down like the rain that falls after heavy artillery fire.</p><p>“I can’t believe it was only a year ago.” He sighs.</p><p>Buck thinks of his father again and the forever vacant space he left behind. “My dad has been dead for six years now, but I still miss him. The feeling won’t go away.”</p><p>Something about his words pushes Malarkey into motion, and he turns under Buck’s arm to hug him properly. His embrace is tight and warm, nothing like a mother's tender affection or a girl's coyness. It's everything Buck has been craving, and maybe that's why his instincts urge him to back away from it with a clap on the shoulder, but he stops. There’s no one to see it here. No one to scoff at them and question if they truly are heroes after all. It’s just the two of them, and they can do whatever they want. He closes his eyes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They walk back to the car a few hours later in silence. It’s dusk, but the rapidly darkening sky doesn’t frighten them. They’ve spent plenty a night outside to be free of that fear. Buck enjoys the walk. It clears his head of all the residual sadness their conversation stirred up. He tickles the back of Malarkey’s neck with a pine twig and earns himself a swat and a grin. It's not until they're about to get into the car that Malarkey pauses and gives him an earnest look. “Buck?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“I, uh.” He swallows, then nods gratefully. “It was good to talk about it.”</p><p>Buck returns the nod and smiles. If only he could do more than just listen. That’s what he thinks about all the way back to Astoria - if only he could give Malarkey a shove in the right direction. Someone needs to curb the wave of self-destruction threatening to bowl him over. Buck feels inadequate and helpless in the face of that challenge until just before the city border, he has an idea.</p><p>"Hey, Don." He starts, barely resisting the lopsided smile that wants to spread across his lips. "Wanna bet?"</p><p>Malarkey frowns at the road, clueless. “What?”</p><p>"I bet you ten bucks that you can make it without drinking for a month."</p><p>He takes a moment to think about it. "That's stupid, I have no reason to stop then."</p><p>Well, he has a point. "Okay, then I'll bet on the opposite. Ten bucks."</p><p>Malarkey shakes his head, but he’s smiling. "And two packs of smokes."</p><p>Buck lets his tentative satisfaction spread through his body. "Deal."</p><p>The next morning, he goes back home to California. As the treeline trails off into the coast and the endless blues of the sea, he thinks of their snowball fight by the Nehalem, of tricking Don's friends in the bar, of clinging to a door in Holland, of England, of D-day and then Bastogne. He hopes he’ll lose the bet.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The following weeks pass uneventfully. Even in California, January seems bleak and long, lined with painful anniversaries and hard decisions. But as winter spins into spring, the clouds begin to clear. A future materializes beyond the ashes that consumed 1945. Buck declines the minor league offer and goes back to college instead. With some luck, he figures, he can keep fighting for justice in the courtroom as a lawyer and find his purpose there. In February, he gathers his courage and sends George a letter. He knows he shouldn't be surprised, but it still amazes him that the reply is heartfelt and friendly. The pressure in his chest begins to ease off.</p><p>On a mild Wednesday morning in March, he goes down to the letterbox and collects the post. He's still half-asleep and not terribly interested in the news or his mother's magazine, but something makes him stop dead in his tracks in the middle of the front yard.</p><p>It’s a postcard from Niagara Falls. On its back, only three words:</p><p> <em>I won. - Malark</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>~End~</em>
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